


Cricket

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-11
Updated: 2006-03-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8089300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Space is very big and there aren't all that many star systems. What do you do when there's nothing to do? (08/03/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Beta: The incomparable ShiShi, who held my hand as she reassuringly led me into the strange and wonderful world of slash; and who helped me as I travelled through the even stranger world that is American English!  


* * *

I didn't need the alarm to tell me that it'd been four weeks. I could tell by Malcolm's behaviour. He was edgy, unsettled, restless. He tried to hide it, but I knew. After all, I loved him.

I chose a night when Malcolm was busy helping chef. Honestly, when chef first saw Malcolm with those damned knives of his, flinging them at the Klingon outline on the cargo bay walls, I thought I had a serious rival. And when Chef realised that Malcolm's talent with knives extended into the kitchen, it was clear to everyone that Chef worshipped the deckplating Malcolm walked on. So Malcolm, kind soul that he was, spent one night a month helping Chef chop up the vegetables for his famous minestrone. I had at least two hours to spare.

So I called on Trip. We'd done this sort of thing before, and I knew he was damned good at it.

But when I outlined my plan—it was quite brilliant, if I do say so myself—I didn't expect my best buddy to spend the next ten minutes laughing his head off.

He finally settled down to some erratic snorts and grunts. "You have an alarm?" he asked.

"Yes, I have an alarm. So what I need you to do is—"

"An alarm. You've set up an alarm to let you know —"

"I think we've established that, Trip. Now what I need you to do is —"

"And you've rigged it to go off when Malcolm hasn't blown anything for four weeks." He was trying hard, and failing miserably, not to snigger at his own wit.

"No, Trip, " I said as patiently as I could. "When Malcolm hasn't blown anything up for four weeks."

"And you want me to spend hours of my hard earned time just to keep him happy."

"The alternative's a bored Malcolm."

"Hell, we're all bored, Cap'n, it's a pretty boring patch of space."

"But Trip, you and your team have to keep the engines and systems in top shape, and you've got all that alien technology to study if you get bored. The scientists have a three month backlog of planets to sort through. The astrophysicists are still arguing over the planetary nebula they studied last November, for crying out loud. But Malcolm—and his team, of course—" I added hastily, because of course I had all their interests at heart, not just Malcolm. "Well, Malcolm and his team have done everything they can with the weapons. And stop bloody laughing!"

He snorted even harder if that was possible. "You said bloody! Just like Malcolm!"

"Didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't."

"Did too!"

Before this could descend into a playground brawl, and because I had a sneaking suspicion he was right, I exercised some captainly authority and brought him back on topic. "So, you going to do it?"

He sighed deeply, the sort of 'I'm really put upon here but as it's you I'll do it' kind. "Okay, I 'spose."

"Gracious of you."

"I'm all heart, captain."

"Hey, Trip, the whole armory section thanks you." And I was so grateful I hardly sulked at all when Florida clobbered Stanford.

* * *

Two days later Trip had initiated the plan. And that evening it was obvious that Malcolm was less restless. In fact, he spent a good ten minutes sitting still, merely stroking Porthos' ear in a way that had the pooch cross-eyed and drooling with bliss. Well, like dog, like owner, I always say.

"Something up, Malcolm?" I asked as idly as I could. And winced. I really had to work on my acting skills. Maybe I could catch an Adult Ed course when we got back to earth.

Fortunately he was too absorbed in whatever he was thinking about to notice. Much. After one sharp glance he said, "Not really, love, just something from work."

"Want to tell me?" Please don't, I really don't think my dissimulation could survive more than two sentences without it being obvious I was hiding something. But once again the gods were smiling on starship captains.

"Nah, don't think so. It's not important. I'm sure I'll work it out." Then his expression changed from alert to smirk. "And speaking of working out, I can see someone who needs one." He got up and walked towards the bed, dislodging Porthos who glared at me. And such was Malcolm's power that the idea of a cross Porthos gave me absolutely no concerns. Besides, the dog owed me. He'd had Malcolm stroke him for long enough.

* * *

Malcolm's obvious—and much practiced—stroking ability had been put to such good use last night that even the boredom that hung around the bridge wasn't enough to change my excellent mood. My usual "Morning, everyone!" might have been happier than normal but that was no reason for Trip to grunt grumpily or Hoshi to yawn so blatantly.

Travis, bless him, was his usual cheerful self. He never changed; he was as reliable as Malcolm's allergy shots or Porthos' need for cheese. In fact Travis was so unchangeable that I found myself wondering if he was actually a very sophisticated cardboard cutout. This disturbing thought fortunately occupied a good half-hour of a day, which promised to be as mind-numbingly dull as the previous twenty-seven. There was no way to avoid it—it was paperwork time.

Some of the longest hours of my life followed. Just because I was tens of light years from home didn't mean I could avoid the tediousness every other captain had to endure. Besides, HQ may, one day in the not-so distant future, want my input on one of the issues, as remote as that possibility seemed. But the problem with papers such as: "Proposal to change staffing classifications at Jupiter Station" or "An assessment of statistical analysis within Starfleet Headquarters" was that they weren't quite enough to interest me for ten minutes, let alone the nine hours and twenty minutes it took to read them all.

But boy I felt satisfied when I was done. Satisfied, and with neck and back muscles that felt like the hull, they were so tight. What I really needed was a backrub. And some more stroking. Yeah, a man needed a reward for a hard day's work.

First, though, was dinner? Could I get away with not mentioning my plans for the evening and avoiding Trip's inevitable teasing? Possibly, if I kept my wits about me. Thank God T'Pol would also there.

What I didn't count on, however, was T'Pol's complete inability to understand the nuances and subtleties of human communication. In other words, she often failed to keep her mouth shut. After that dinner I was sure I would never forget again.

We were only half way through the entre when disaster struck. It started innocently enough, when Trip asked if I was heading to the shuttle bay to watch the football playoffs with half of the alpha shift. The American half, that is.

Before I could answer with my prepared white lie, T'Pol answered for me. "I believe the Captain is continuing his lessons in cricket."

Trip's reaction—an untidy spluttering of half eaten steak—was at least heartfelt. I was struck immobile with horror.

"Cricket!" Trip couldn't have been more amazed if his parents just knocked on the viewport.

Before I could react, T'Pol was already answering. I felt like I was three again and Mom was speaking for me. "I understand Lieutenant Reed has downloaded the latest day's play from the England—New Zealand test. I believe it promises to be very instructional for the Captain's understanding of the game."

Trip had given up trying to clean the table and was looking at me as if I was a new previously undiscovered type of bug. The ugly, hairy, leggy kind. "Malcolm is teaching you about cricket."

Sometimes I wondered how Trip got his two PhDs. He could be real slow on the uptake. And how did T'Pol know Malcolm was trying to interest me in cricket?

"Hey, how do you know Malcolm's boring the Cap'n to death with that—that—hell, watching the warp core is more exciting than cricket!"

Considering Trip was often found staring at the warp core with a soppy grin on his face, that was a bit unfair. But it was nonetheless a good point.

"Lieutenant Reed was explaining some of the differences between English and American slang to me. I find English colloquialisms are often far more diverse and obscure in their origins than many other earth languages. We were talking about archaic expressions such as 'It's just not cricket' and the Lieutenant mentioned he was teaching you, captain, the 'finer points of the game'."

It was amazing how T'Pol could put quotation marks around phrases simply by raising her eyebrows 2 millimetres.

"Indeed," she continued, barely drawing breath. "Lieutenant Reed suggested I help you revise your understanding of —" and here she actually picked up a PADD and accessed it "— terms such as 'silly mid off', 'leg before wicket' and 'slops'."

Speech over, she calmly put the PADD down and resumed eating what looked like hot water.

"Slips," I found myself saying before I'd thought about it. "The word is slips, not slops."

T'Pol actually checked her PADD and made a correction. Meanwhile Trip had continued to gaze, astonished, at what he clearly thought were his two senior officers gone completely insane. Then he turned to me and said, in awe, "You're whipped."

"Am not!" Damn, that man brings out the schoolboy in me.

"Are too! You're learning cricket, for crying out loud!"

Time for dignified captain tone again. "Malcolm likes it and it's only fair we learn a little about each other's interests."

Trip wasn't going to be deflected, though. "But it lasts for days! Days and days and days and they can still only draw! And you're throwing over the playoffs for —"

"What does 'whipped' mean in this context?" T'Pol asked, accessing that PADD again.

I hadn't made captain for nothing. I seized my chance and ran with it. "Trip can explain, T'Pol. It's an American colloquialism that has a long and interesting history. And I'm off to check the bridge. Goodnight!"

A good captain always knows when it's best to make a strategic retreat. Fast.

* * *

Trip was right. Cricket was as boring as—well, I wasn't sure what it was as boring as because I'd never seen anything as dull. Even the commentators weren't talking about it: they were chatting about the seagulls on the field.

It was so dull it was fascinating. How long could the boringness of this game continue?

But it had one great advantage. Malcolm was sprawled across my lap, warm beer in hand, and he was in a great mood. He even seemed to be enjoying the vast acres of boredom on the screen.

"Of course, Jaitly's pretty good, but he's not as graceful as Sneddon," Malcolm was saying. Considering Jaitly was currently tapping his bat on the ground, and hadn't done anything else for a good five minutes, I was surprised Malcolm could tell. But every time Malcolm spoke I felt the rush of his warm breath on my leg. And that was worth sitting through hours of the dullest game in the world. Which this undoubtably was.

Malcolm wriggled a bit—that was very pleasant—and sat up so he could finish the last of his beer. "You're bored rotten, aren't you?"

"No!" I said hastily. "Not at all, it's a great game, it's wonderful to watch, it's—great!" Oh boy, was that as lame as I thought?

Malcolm laughed. "Thanks for trying, love, but you don't have to pretend. It's a frigging dull innings." He turned it off and I tried not to look too relieved. Besides, I missed that huff of breath on my leg every few minutes.

"Music?" he asked, and turned on one of my discs. He must have felt guilty at making me sit through the frigging dull game. Our musical tastes were at opposite ends of the spectrum. And when he didn't say anything disparaging about Billie Midnight I knew the guilt must be really getting to him.

When I first discovered Malcolm loved hard rock—particularly from the '40s—I couldn't believe it. Then I was fascinated. To think that our uptight, rigid armory officer was a hardHead thrilled me: it was so contradictory it raised my hopes that one day he might rebel against his standards and see me as Jon, not the Captain. After all, hardHeads were the worst of the hard rock fans: the sort you saw hanging around Market Square in San Francisco with their PD players turned to maximum and their shaven heads moving in time to what they fondly believed was a beat. But as Malcolm explained it, his attraction made sense: "Mum and Dad liked that ghastly homogenous pap you hear on those fecking awful Starfleet discs so of course I went for the exact opposite. And then I found I actually liked it."

I managed to keep secret my "Starfleet's favorite tunes" volumes one through seven until we'd been going out for a few weeks.

Then I revelled in the fact that Malcolm was confident enough to tease me endlessly about my "appalling bourgeois taste in what purports to be music."

But he wasn't teasing tonight. Instead he was running through the discs he'd borrowed from various crew members.

"—and Travis' tapes of his mum's and dad's stuff. He says it reminds him of home."

"Everything reminds Travis of home," I said, and then felt ten feet tall when Malcolm sniggered.

"Well, I'd never borrow it. Too —"

"Bourgeois," we said together, and laughed. God, I loved it when we were like an old married couple.

Malcolm took another swig of that horrible black beer he liked. I watched those full lips around the edge of the bottle and felt my brain slide into a warm, trance-like state. But we'd already had a very satisfying time in the shower and as much as the mind was willing, the flesh just wasn't up to it. So I tried to forget about Malcolm and those lips and what they could do to various long, bottle-shaped objects and got back to the topic in hand. So to speak. "What about Trip? You'll never guess what Trip likes."

There was a slight pause while Porthos decided he wanted up too, and tried to wriggle between us. After a slight tussle he settled across both of us. Never let it be said my dog rules my life.

"Can't imagine what Trip likes. Except it's probably stuff I've never heard before. Blues, or something."

"Ah, now there you're wrong. Our engineer likes baroque. Bach and Vivaldi and—" I tried to remember any of the other names Trip had mentioned during an incredibly dull session one rainy afternoon nine years ago. He'd tried to interest me in his music collection but honestly, that stuff was so boring it almost made cricket look interesting. Almost.

But it had got Malcolm's attention. "You're kidding?" he exclaimed, sitting up and dislodging Porthos. Who was Not Pleased.

"Yep, something about the preciseness and timing reminds him of engines. Or math. Or ...something." I tried to remember the endless lecture Trip had given but it was happily wiped from my memory.

"Really?" Malcolm had a gleam in his eye. This could be good. Or not. "Hoshi likes it too. Says she likes the predictability of that era. Honestly! As if you want predictability in music!"

And the love of my life was off again on one of his favourite topics. I sat back and enjoyed the ride. At least it wasn't cricket.

* * *

Engineering was my last stop. Everyone else was doing pretty well, considering it was now thirty-six days without anything happening. Astrophysics had moved on to arguing about emission nebulas and the scientists were trying to replicate the conditions in some sludge they had found three planets ago.

The armory team—all four of them—were playing charades. With Phlox.

"It's a lesson in reading body language, sir," Malcolm said, at his most officious. "You never know how an alien race is going to perceive our movements or we theirs."

Put like that it almost seemed convincing. But they were happy and morale was obviously high so who was I to complain.

I pondered the importance of body language and other kinds of language all the way to Engineering. After all, first contacts were fraught with difficulties over language. Keeping metaphors and similes out of any communication was damned difficult but I think I managed pretty well. Most of the time. There was the odd occasion—gazelles and fishing metaphors sprung to mind—but even they usually worked out.

The warp core was humming happily and so were the engineers. I was so proud of my crew I felt like bursting. They were keeping their spirits up in any way they could. No one said it would be easy out here but every one of Enterprise's people was performing at their best.

Damn, it felt good to be their captain.

Then I found Trip. He was swearing at what appeared to be the contents of a junk store's trash can scattered all over his desk.

"What's up?"

Trip jumped and swore some more. "Son-of-a-bitch chip won't work."

I looked at his desk. "Surprised any of that crap works. What is it?"

"Two hundred year old radio. Lizzie found it in a junk shop. Thought I could get it to work and then maybe I could pick up those old radio broadcasts that must be floating around out here from the Second World War." He peered at some broken piece of what seemed to be plastic—not that I'd seen any plastic outside of a museum—and swore again.

"That's great, Trip. If you can get it to work it'd be fascinating to see what we could—pitch in to? Is that the right word?"

"Tune in to. They used to 'tune in to' a program."

"Right." I looked around his office and tried to think of a casual way to bring up the topic I really wanted to ask about.

I couldn't think of a way so I plunged right in. "How're you doing with that thing we talked about a week ago?"

"What thing?"

"The thing. You know, the thing with Malcolm. Um—Lieutenant Reed."

"The thing about him using up seven relays to jury-rig some Klingon technology to the torpedoes or the thing about keeping him and the rest of armory happy?" Trip was now caressing the slightly dirty parts of the radio as if they were Miss Jupiter Station 2151. It was a bit unsettling to tell the truth. Reminded me of the way Malcolm stroked.

So I drew on my Starfleet training and made a mental note to investigate the Klingon technology and moved on to more pressing matters. "The morale thing. How did you go with that?"

"Didn't Malcolm tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Trip put down the unidentifiable bit of whatever—antique technology always looked so big—and turned to stare at me. "It took him two days. Two days and he was at my door, problem solved. And gloating about it. Un-fucking-believable. I aced that course at college. And for my doctorate. I tell you, that man is a brainiac in disguise."

I was dumbfounded. I mean, I knew Malcolm was bright but Trip—he was one of the best in the field at this. But he was even better at engineering so not many people knew about it. And Malcolm had figured it out in two days.

Well, no wonder he'd been so settled since last Wednesday. And here I was thinking it had something to do with the massage manuals we had downloaded that night. After all, it had taken hours just to read the introduction. Although I think it was Malcolm's insistence on testing all possible uses for the massage oil that delayed us.

I knew I should have been pleased that Trip had tried, and that Malcolm had succeeded, but part of me was childishly upset. After all, I had wanted Malcolm to be intrigued and involved in the problem for a week or so.

That man was like a geological fault line with an endless range of different layers and strata. He was intriguing. And lovable.

And infuriating.

Damn.

* * *

It was a fact that a simple evening playing card games with Malcolm rated more highly than the night Marla Jenkins, goddess of Stanford Class of 2132, decided I was the one to take her to paradise. Up until this year, that night had been the numero uno of fantastic nights. But about a week after Malcolm and I got together, he got injured again. And he wasn't up to anything strenuous, so we ended up playing a ridiculously childish and amazingly fun game of Go Fish. It was then I realised how much I loved this man: anything done with any of my previous lovers—even the Goddess of Stanford—paled in comparison to a couple of hours being a fool with Malcolm.

So every so often we played cards and acted like eight-year-olds again. It was liberating, being able to shed the role of Captain. And watching Malcolm as he tried hard to find out when I was cheating was fun too.

Afterwards we cuddled on the bed, Malcolm rubbing his cold feet against my legs as usual and me complaining about it as usual. Life did not get any better than this.

But I had to know. It had been eating away at me all day and now was my chance. "Malcolm?"

"Hmm?" He was absent-mindedly playing with the buttons on my shirt and I could tell he was half way to sleep.

"Trip mentioned today—"

Suddenly my boneless lover disappeared and a rigid armory officer took his place. "Look, Jon, whatever he says we need that Klingon technology. We're hopelessly outgunned here and —"

I staved the flow of Malcolm's well-rehearsed speech "Why We Need More, Bigger, Better And More Effective Armaments" by simply putting my hand over his mouth. After all, it wasn't as if I hadn't heard the arguments fifty times before. Both as Malcolm's captain and as his lover.

"It's not about the torpedoes. It's about that encryption you decoded last week."

He looked startled, then he blushed. Hugely. I hadn't seen him blush like that since Ensign Mueller was drunk and came on to him at the Christmas party last year by draping her bra over his face.

"Ah," he said. Sometimes I hated how the English could make "Ah" sound like the most meaningful sentence ever written.

"Ah what?"

"Nothing. Just—ah."

I told you the man was infuriating. "Trip said you solved it in two days. He thought it would take a week or so. After all, he is—"

"One of the best encryption people Starfleet has. I know. That's partly what gave it away."

"Gave what away?" I asked patiently, hoping that didn't sound too stupid. Sometimes I hated being the leader. It meant you were good at leading and picking the right person for the job, not that you were brighter than any of those persons.

"That it was Trip. The encryption was so good it had to be one of Trip's. And I knew it wouldn't be anything important about Enterprise so I figured it'd be a book or some such. But it didn't make sense. I thought it was an encryption within an encryption. Then the other night you told me Trip liked Bach and there it was. I ran it through the computer and my hunch paid off. He'd encrypted the score for the Sarabande of some Bach concerto thing."

Malcolm looked as smug as he did when he solved the cryptic crossword in the European Times newspaper. Smugger, actually, and I didn't think that was possible.

So I kissed him. It seemed only reasonable.

After a very happy five minutes or so, we disengaged and gazed helplessly at each other. God, what this man did to me.

"There's just one thing I don't understand," he said, as he stroked my lower lip and reduced me to a level of whimpering I didn't know existed.

A vaguely interrogative "Huh?" was all I could manage at that point.

"Well, Trip said that you asked him to do it. And that's what I couldn't figure out. After all, he's got enough to be going on with, without doing some encrypting on the side. So—why?"

If he wanted me to answer sensibly he had to stop doing that stroking thing. But what Malcolm wanted from me, he got, so with a mammoth effort I moved my lips out of his reach and tucked his head onto my chest. "You were bored. I knew you tried to hide it but it was true. And although you'd tried to keep your people going, you were running out of ideas. So I asked Trip to give you something to think about for a week or so, hoping that'd keep you busy and raise your morale a bit."

Spoken out loud like that it sounded kind of dumb. Why is it things sound so logical in my head but so stupid when I put them into words?

But Malcolm didn't seem to mind. In fact, if I wasn't mistaken he was getting a bit misty eyed. "You did it for me?"

Uncertain if the truth would get me another "No Special Privileges" lecture, I added—not too hastily—"And the armory crew. If you're not happy, they're not happy. Think of their morale."

I was right. Malcolm was tearing up, although if I called him on it he's say it was allergies. Sometimes I think they provided him with such a great excuse he was damn grateful for them.

"That -that's the one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me," he snuffled.

"Well, I love you, you daft git."

He gave a snorty, snuffly laugh. "I thought daft git was my line."

"Nah, I learnt it from a rather attractive Englishman I met."

He sniffed again, obviously touched but trying to hide it. "Well, the morale thing worked. I was so pleased at dumbfounding Trip I'm ashamed to say I walked on air for a day or two." Another sniff, and he turned to the bedside table to fumble for a tissue. "Damned allergies."

I hid a smile.

"Seriously, love, thank you. It gave me a lift and you're right, it did lift the team as well."

"My pleasure." I felt ten feet tall, and made a mental note to thank Trip profusely at breakfast.

* * *

Two nights later Malcolm bounced into the cabin looking happier than Porthos did when some solar winds jostled the ship and knocked Trip's untouched steak onto the floor.

"Maddie sent it! Hot off the press!"

Please, oh please, not more cricket.

"The England-Australia rugby test!"

Oh, great.

The British Empire had a number of worthwhile achievements—the handing back of Gibraltar to Spain was a masterpiece of mid twenty-first century diplomacy—but these endless sporting tests between the former colonies was not one of the great traditions left. Not for this descendant of colonists, anyway.

But rugby was marginally better than cricket. Marginally. It was as bewildering as cricket. Every time the play got interesting, the referee blew his whistle for some incomprehensible reason and they all changed what they were doing. And as Malcolm seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time yelling at the referee I think I wasn't alone in being confused.

But at least the men wore shorts instead of those long trousers. And there was that pretty attractive guy that did the kicking for England—or was it Australia?

The disc was put in the player and I resigned myself to ninety minutes of trying to look interested. Then Malcolm got himself a beer, and settled in his favourite spot across my lap. I felt his warm breath on my leg.

Suddenly, I was the happiest guy in the universe.


End file.
